Canonical Elitists' Search and Rescue
by The Phantom Parisienne
Summary: Rating cautionary. Full title is "The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation." Our favourite characters take it upon themselves to save their legend. (Chapter Three up!)
1. A Red Ribbon and a Revolutionary

Usual disclaimers apply.

A line in this is taken from Alyx Bradford (known to the Phandom as "Susette").  
  
Review. Leave an illiterate flame, if you like. I don't really mind. If you're angry, review. If you're happy, review. If you just plain don't care, you can tell me that.  
  
If you report me, you will be ridiculed. I'm not stupid; FFN simply doesn't catch things like these on their own. People report other people. Whether out of jealousy, or sheer stupidity and barbarism, they do, and I can't really do anything about it but repost. And I'm willing to do that.  
  
Thanks, Christine, Cass. I heart you both and you deserve muffins. (SarahLynn too!) And to anyone else who saw this on LiveJournal and didn't leave a comment.  
  
This is satiric and funky. And it might get a wee bit cruel. So I've given you fair warning, I've told you this might get ugly. Without further ado...  
  


The Scandinavian Guild for Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation (Or Not)

  
  
  
Erik smoothed a wrinkle in the sleeve of his finely-tailored coat and comfortably slid into his seat at the head of the table. Christine was at his right hand side, and Nadir at his left. Next to Christine was Raoul, who was glancing at Erik nervously as though Erik might harm him. The Council Rules specified that a Council Member could not bodily harm another Council Member without signed permission from Christine, who was known to be peaceful and therefore wouldn't sign any permission for that at all. Erik hadn't requested any permission for bodily harm because he knew that wouldn't exactly score points for his way to earning love. Raoul shifted uncomfortably. Carolus Fonta, Sorelli, the managers, La Carlotta, Philippe, Joseph Buquet, Meg, Madame Giry, and an assorted number of ballet rats, sat around the table as well; some with their feet kicked up, some fast asleep, and some looking as though they had just been resurrected from the dead (which they probably had).  
  
Christine fidgeted with the simple, golden ring hanging on a silver chain around her neck and heaved a great sigh. Erik flexed his elegant gloved fingers and leaned forward in his chair. Some random ballet rats were still popping in from the story, but as they appeared, the spaces around the table seemed to fill in comfortably. The last man to appear was a stout man, clad in the clothing of the French gentlemen of the early 1900s. He was looking through everyone through a pair of spectacles very curiously.   
  
He was, for the most part ignored.  
  
Erik shuffled the papers on the polished wooden table in front of him. He could almost catch his reflection in the wood... he shuddered and abruptly stood up, cloak sweeping behind him. "_Ahem_!"  
  
Everyone sat up a bit straighter in their chairs, and all eyes fixed on him. "Welcome to the first official meeting of the Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation."   
  
"Who thought up _that_ title?" Nadir muttered to himself, probably too loudly.  
  
"I did!" Monsieur Leroux countered, furrowing his brow and giving Nadir a hard look. He also glanced at Erik.  
  
"It doesn't roll off the tongue... how about 'Canonical Elisists' Search and Rescue' (for canon that's somehow muddled in with the trash, but people will realise that on their own, anyhow...)," Raoul interjected. "See? It spells 'C-E-S-A-R'!" He beamed.  
  
There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "It does!"  
  
"The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation stays," Leroux said, standing up and trying in vain to glare at both Nadir and Raoul at once, and succeeding in crossing his eyes most painfully.  
  
"But that only spells 'SGOPFR.' That's not anything! We need a good acronym!" He pronounced 'sgoprf' painfully slowly, taking his time to accentuate each word, stood up, and prodded Leroux's chest, glaring. Leroux grabbed his pocketwatch and was about to dash Raoul's brains out, before Erik stopped them. Nadir had since sat down meekly and began to twiddle his thumbs idly, avoiding the quarrel.  
  
"Gentlemen, please. Ask Christine if you want permission for that. And do it _later_, not now." He coughed politely. "Now, as I was saying... If you have been summoned here, you know that something is going totally wrong. Levels of tributes to us are soaring sky-high, but the quality is going so low that we had to get another piece of paper to graph it, and then we just let a red ribbon about a mile long, stretching in the negative section, go down the hallways of this building." He indicated a chart showing these awful numbers, and a red ribbon was indeed stretching out the door and down the corridor.  
  
He turned to the projection screen behind him, and cleared his throat again. Little Jammes scrambled to the projector and switched to slide one, which was a picture of FanFiction.Net's "Phantom" Just In section, spammed with bad grammar and teenybopper writing.  
  
"As you, fellow residents of Monsieur Leroux's—" here he gestured to Leroux, who was inching toward Sorelli and being glared at by Philippe "—story, might know, the state of the tales in..._honour_...of us has been severely deteriorating over the past few months." Everyone nodded in agreement and Erik nodded at Jammes, who switched to the next slide, which was a picture of an ordinary mid-twenties woman of 2004, fainted, lying on a floor, surrounded by spilled coffee and Sour Skittles. "This is the result of the reading of the first one-hundred words — give or take a few dozen — of one of those stories."  
  
Some gasped, but most already knew the horrors that these stories were capable of.  
  
"Are we supposed to stand, idle, while our story's legacy is defaced? Are we supposed to ignore the heinous acts committed in the name of misguided and deluded adoration for our tale? Are we supposed to ignore the innocent minds and lives that are being scarred by poor grammar and poor vocabulary? NO! I say we take action!"  
  
They nodded happily, exchanging looks and admiring Erik's fervent vigour and enthusiasm. Christine gazed at Erik, eyes sparkling. Everyone seemed to smile, knowing that he was right.  
  
"Jammes, next slide, please." Slide number three showed two teenage girls, each clutching bottles of Diet Cherry Coke, apparently in peals of laughter. They wore gaudy, dark makeup, and ratty, faded black clothing. Everyone present winced at exactly the same moment, causing the whole room to seem as though it were wincing too: it contracted and then moved back its normal size. It was a very strange effect. "These are two teenage girls who are disillusioned. They think they are entitled to part of our legend. They are _wrong_. We need to protect our story!"  
  
"But what are we going to do?" they replied.  
  
"Simple. We're fictional, right? Technically that means we aren't real. But only technically. Through their minds we're real. As little splotches of ink on paper we are real. So we can bend the laws of reality, because we aren't like real people. We're much more than that. They slip from their desks and envision a story. The story comes to them, really. Why can't the characters, in physical form, come to them? There's no reason why not, of course."  
  
"Well, they use computers, so... we'd be coming out of the pixels," Raoul interjected nervously, half-raising his hand like a nervous schoolboy afraid of getting a question incorrect.   
  
"Pixels, ink. It's all words, isn't it? As 'fiction', we can rip their 'laws' and 'restrictions' like hands rip tissue paper. We'll wrinkle and crinkle them. After all, not even being real to begin with, we have no laws of our own... simply the laws of imagination."  
  
"You certainly did think this through, Monsieur le Fantôme!" the ballet girls said, half-giggling, for it was their nature to be giggling for forty-nine per cent of all available time. The other fifty-one per cent was, as an unwritten law dictated firmly, to be occupied with screaming and fainting and swooning. If nothing else in the story was set in stone, and all was a variable in this great mix-up of a tale, that was the set-in-stone constant.  
  
"Are you with me?"  
  
Shouts and yells of "aye!" and "of course!" and "anywhere you go, let me go too!" filled the small room.  
  
"Jammes, lights." The lights came on and Jammes skipped back to the table, taking her seat next to Meg and Sorelli.  
  
"Then what are we waiting for? It's time to save our story!"


	2. Of Armour and Weaponry

Usual disclaimers apply.

Oh, my... *knocked over by her review alerts, which are quickly accumulating in her mailbox*  
I'd like to thank all of you.   
  


Special messages:   
**Christine Persephone**, I certainly didn't intend that, but if it does come across as that, hooray! It works, really. _Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men..._ Many thank-yous for Christine's weaponry/armour!  And for everything in general.    
**Alyx Bradford**, I was rather proud of the ribbon myself. It's in this chapter, too. I wasn't really going to sit and twitch while the Phandom was massacred... had to do something.   
**kippogirl**, smite? Alyx, Christine... Sorry. Smite. Smite. Smite. Smite them. Not with the mallet of justice... better things, definitely.  
**Shandethe Sanders**, there'll be some revolutionary songs in here, don't you worry! Most notably a Les Miz song.  
**The Grasshopper**, diet sodas taste better in France. I think they're made with Splenda or something.  
To more than half of you: Yup. Carolus Fonta! Whoo!  
And your cookies.

I'm a canon whore. Note Sorelli's stiletto. It makes guest appearances in the first chapter.   
  


  
  
Canonical Elitists' Search And Rescue  
_or_  
The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation  
by The Phantom Parisienne  
Chapter Two: Of Armour and Weaponry  
  
  


The cries of agreement from around the table nearly deafened Erik. He smiled and waved his hands to calm them. "So, tomorrow morning, at daybreak, we will set off into the unknown to save it. Until then, I advise getting a good night's rest and polishing your armour and weapons."  
  
  


"Armour? Weapons? Who said anything about going into battle?" a particularly small ballet girl squeaked. "Monsieur le Fantôme, with all due respect, I thought we could —"  
  
  


"Do this with the proper weapons," another girl cut in, wagging her finger. "I already asked and they said they wanted us to put spikes on the tips of our toe-shoes."  
  
  


"Really?!" the girls echoed, fancying an adventure, the likes of which they hadn't seen since they all took a wrong turn on their way to Sorelli's dressing-room and ended up facing the door of the men's lavatory.  
  
  


The Phantom put a gloved hand to his temple with a weary sigh. "Yes, armour, weaponry, all of that. It's not going to be a stroll in the garden, my —" here there was a slight cough, just enough to be faintly detected by anyone who was paying attention "—friends. This officially concludes our meeting!"   
  
  


"Hooray!" Those closest to the door sprang for the exit, careful not to trip themselves over the ribbon, which was conspicuously trailing to the end of the hallway, where it took a sharp right toward the door, where the brutal snows and harsh climate greeted it. However, it was a durable ribbon, not made of a flimsy material, and was firmly in the negatives, and was going to stay there indefinitely.  
  
  


--  
  
  


The complex, situated in a particularly uninhabited part of Norway, was a big, white building to blend with the snow and ice, and was roomy enough for a characterless cast of another novel, preferably a trashy romance novel. The characters of Phantom wouldn't be able to stand actual, developed personalities with which to quarrel with, and they were already very tired of one another's quirks, habits, and idiosyncrasies. But the bodily harm rule was enforced very strictly, so scuffles were rare and ended quickly when they did occur.  
  
  


The girls' dormitories were larger than the men's, and far more luxuriant, following the style of just about everything in the history of ever: locker rooms, public bathrooms, and clothes. It was simple, but clean and smelled vaguely of vanilla. No-one was compelled to complain, because there wasn't much to complain about. The ballet girls, Meg, Christine, and Sorelli all scurried off for the dormitories, worried about what sort of armour and weapons they would be able to find before sunrise the next day. Two of the ballet girls, bouncing about together, were discussing their potential armour.  
  
  


"Do you think that wearing a pillow on my bottom will help if I trip over my spiked toe-shoes?"  
  
  


"No! But is making a tutu out of sheet metal okay?"  
  
  


"My bet's on no."  
  
  


"Oh, boo. But I could always just grab a paella pan and hang it over my neck with some ribbon, right?"  
  
  


"I wonder if someone brought a paella pan?"  
  
  


"Perhaps. I really hope so, 'cause making the sheet metal tutu would take too much time."  
  
  


"Yup."  
  
  


Christine, however, already knew _exactly_ what she wanted to use to protect herself and to defend her legend: a parasol, of course. What better epitome of her innocent, feminine beauty than a frilly pink parasol?   
  
  


And what better way to protect herself than with a pinafore? She had packed one, for some unexplainable reason. It might've been that wearing it reminded her of her dear father, who had given it to her, or that it simply made her remember something that she couldn't quite name. Whatever it was, her pinafore was made of a strange material, which, as she would learn later, was mithril-calico: it was the legendary Pinafore of Doom. The rings were so small and tightly interlocked that it was as a smooth, liquid waterfall in her hands: it was even blue, and dotted with white flowers.   
  
  


Christine was in her element, with her curly hair pulled back by an enormous blue ribbon, and her red scarf ready to be put on the next morning.  
  
  


Sorelli slipped her stiletto up the sleeve of her fur coat, which was a lavish present from the Comte de Chagny, and also necessary due to the cold, Arctic climate. Although not the cleverest woman in the building (and far from it), she knew that her stiletto was dangerous, and knew how to use it, too. The fur coat was thick and a half-size too large, just barely touched the floor. With huge, broad shoulders, it made her appear larger and taller than her usual size; it was intended to intimidate teenyboppers, and when coupled with energetic waving of the stiletto, was extremely useful indeed.  
  
  


The packing of that fur coat was a very elaborate process: there were some packages of Saltines in the pockets, and a miniature sewing kit was tucked into a pocket as well. Other characters were to sneak their own possessions in there as well: a favourite pen, a monocle, a pocketwatch... all because the coat was akin to a suitcase, and no-one else wanted to wear something so heavy and elaborate but Sorelli.  
  
  


Meanwhile, Meg was trying to find the best ways to pack extra ribbons, because ribbons almost always came in handy: she had learned this from years of experience. And if they weren't used, they were pretty and flouncy, something all of the ballet girls agreed was good. She laced extra ribbons onto her toe-shoes, and encouraged her fellow dancers to do the same: they eventually went overboard and tied ribbons around everything in sight. She also gave Christine the only red ribbon they had, and instructed her to tie it onto her left wrist, seeing as just about every other place where a ribbon was able to be tied (Christine's hair, her other wrist, her shoes, her waist, the loops in the frilly part of the Pinafore of Doom, her parasol's handle, her neck) was already occupied by one of the ribbons' mates.   
  
  


"Isn't that lovely?" Meg giggled as she wove ribbons into Christine's dark curls.  
  
  


"It is! It looks so beautiful, Meg. Thank you. We'll be ready for whatever comes our way." She grinned into the mirror, twirling about, causing her Pinafore of Doom to floof out. Instinctively she shoved the chain with the ring on it beneath the fabric of her skirt, because it didn't quite fit in with her whole outfit. Neither did the red ribbon, but there was really no other place to put it.  
  
  


Sorelli carefully hung her coat in the closet, laughing to herself. The coat was now about twenty pounds, and would gain a few more pounds as various people got up in the middle of the night on the whim of packing something else.  
  
  


Madame Giry, immaculate as always in her traditional black, reluctantly tied a white ribbon around her cane and refused to admit to anyone else that she liked its look. Carlotta drank a lot of water to preserve her voice, did not speak much that night, and prepared to belt high C's into ears and prepared to shriek if necessary.   
  
  


It was only until that night, as they were preparing for bed, that they realised that they had to take off every single ribbon and put it back on the next morning, when they were really leaving the Headquarters.  
  
  


Meanwhile, in the men's dormitory, other things were happening... it was a smaller room, and not nearly as clean as it should have been. The wallpaper was shabby, but it was vaguely homey and comfortable to just about everyone but Erik, who was a bit uneasy in this white-ish, unfamiliar place that was not in any way akin to his own home.  
  
  


Erik had already selected his gear, and was occupying himself with packing it into his cloak. Among his possessions were the infamous Punjab lasso, his fireball-shooting staff, and a full-face black mask which was trimmed with gold paint at the eyes and the sides. Every so often he had to duck quickly, as Firmin and Andre were practising throwing their monocles (serving as throwing-stars) and fountain-pens across the room. Two nearly struck Erik's head, and he dodged them in time, but he reminded himself that next time he had better pack a bulletproof fedora, for good measure.   
  
  


He shot a nasty look at Firmin, who had just hurled his monocle at the paper bull's-eye hanging on the wall, and missed by a few yards, striking instead Erik's ink bottle, causing it to spill.   
  
  


"Take the ink, too," Firmin muttered. "It will be a reality check if you dump it on something they like: most writers in their time don't use bottled ink."  
  
  


Erik vaguely considered requesting permission to harm Firmin, but resolved that travelling all the way to the girls' dormitory for Christine was not very gentlemanly, and that leaving his things unguarded, even for a few minutes, was not a good idea at all, so he closed his eyes and pretended to not exist. That didn't prevent a few more monocles flying toward his head.  
  
  


Raoul and Nadir both packed their pistols without a moments' hesitation, and Philippe agreed that it was the best method of protection for them. Leroux had had his pocketwatch fitted with retractable spikes, and his monocle was at the ready. For armour, they were puzzled as to what to take, but packed heavy black overcoats with a thick, canvas outer layer, and hoped that would be enough.   
  
  


Carolus Fonta was at a loss for his possessions, so he contented himself with paper-cut inducing Notes and a spear from the Opéra's prop department.   
  
  


They were ready.  
  
  


--  
  
  


That night, they all went to sleep at once, except for Erik and Meg: she tied a solitary green ribbon around the refrigerator door in the Kitchen and stuffed two rolls of ribbons into the pockets of Sorelli's coat; he spread out a map across the conference table in the Council Room and began to mark it diligently with red X's, indicating the places where they would go first.  
  
  


Madame Giry awoke at about four in the morning, tiredly tucked ten francs and a box of English chocolates into a random pocket of Sorelli's coat, and fell back asleep as soon as she went right back to bed.   
  
  


Erik hummed a little tune to himself: _One day more till revolution..._  
  


  
((Because I'm like that. Sorelli's coat is based off of the "furs" Christine is wrapped in in Leroux's book. I don't think Christine was much of a fur girl. More... cloak-y to me. Next chapter's going to be better than this, I promise... It features the Poetry Factories of Australia! ('Cause, as everyone knows, Australia is funky...)  Please review! ;) ))


	3. Insert Logical Title Here

Usual disclaimers apply.   
  
First things first: _the Pinafore of DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM is not my creation. It is Christine Persephone's. _Go give her your compliments: she's talented, and I'm going to plug her works: The Incredibly Random Crossover and The Summons. Go. Read, my minions! READ! :) if you were to lazy to do it yourself._  
_  
**Alyx Bradford**, we've got to get down to discussing those papercuts one day. I don't like Mary-Sues either. (Obviously, if y' couldn't tell...*snort snort snicker*)   
**Christine Persephone**, here it is, just for you (actually, the Ellarans...). PINAFORE OF DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!  
**darla**, what's a war without casualties? That's sort of like a button without holes in it. Thanks for your advice, all of it, really, but... I do hope that something good will come of it. And if not, I won't feel wasted. I've done my best.   
**Miranda7911**, a monocle is an eyeglass for one eye. It's usually on a chain. And a stiletto is a thin dagger.  
Australia=DINGOES.   
**Midasgirl**, I do recall when things like the poor writing and conflicts didn't exist, and I miss it, but things are changing, I'm afraid. *gives a muffin?*  
And, **Phantom's Requiem**, I'm honoured that you think I have a healthy mind. Albeit sarcastic.  
**flying fuzzy logic**, I explained my replies to you on AIM. But... this whole revolution thing is the same thing as in school, only I've heard rumours of suing there.  
  
German as a language frightens me. *cough cough* That's why the factories are in Germany. I didn't really know where else to put them.   
This chapter targets mass-produced poetry. Work on it for more than a minute, dearies.  
  
And much love hugs and cookies for everyone who's been an active part of this revolution. That means my side. Like... Christine Persephone, Alyx Bradford, y'all. Y'all know who you are. If I forgot to name you here, you can pester me all you'll like and I'll add you.  
  
--  
Canonical Elitists' Search and Rescue,  
_or  
_The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation  
by The Phantom Parisienne  
  
Chapter Three: Insert Logical Title Here  
  
The sun rose bright and clear that morning, and was barely waking the fog from its own dormancy when the company was fully conscious and active. The whole building was sent into chaos, mostly from Sorelli's complaining that her coat was too heavy to wear. She was rebuked, almost instantly, by the dozens of characters who replied that it was her own fault that she had over-packed, and that she would have to live with it.  
  
Her intellect didn't tell her that it was wise to check all of the pockets, so she didn't, and wore the coat anyway, refusing to leave without it.  
  
Breakfast was ignored; the whole place was too frenzied to trouble themselves to do anything but prepare for this grand revolution. It was later when hunger would begin to nip at their stomachs. And it was later when Sorelli would discover that she possessed enough food to feed a small army.  
  
Meg awoke with a yawn, and leaped out of bed, still half-asleep, retying every single ribbon. The ribbons had, of course, been tucked away neatly on their cardboard rolls, so as to be preserved. The other ballet rats quickly assisted her, not wanting to be left out of the fun.  
  
Armour donned, weapons clean and dangerous, they marched into the council-room, where Erik was already waiting at the head of the table. As everyone filed in, they made sure not to move the little red ribbon. Sorelli limped to her seat and nearly collapsed into it, breathing hard. A few sympathetic looks, mostly from Leroux and Philippe, were directed to her, but attention was mainly directed to Erik, who was truly commanding.   
  
He was a spectacle, to be sure: no weapons were visible, but they were undoubtedly there. The way he carried himself showed that he was ready to fight to the death; his posture was perfect, his eyes were cold, and not a hair was out of place. Stately, tall, perfectly erect, he was _dangerous_.  
  
Raoul was having a minor inner conflict: should he go on with or without his hat? It was tall, and might get in the way... he didn't know, but sat it on the table in front of him, chewing his lip.   
  
Meg and the ballet girls were all rainbows of colour with their ribbons, save for the gloomy pair who had stuck with the first impulses and were consequently clothed in sheet-metal tutus and paella pans (which had been mysteriously smuggled there by Leroux). Meg _tut-tutted_ and gave them a few grey ribbons to tie in their hair.  
  
Christine looked just about as fierce as she could (which was still relatively docile) in her Pinafore of Doom and her ribbons. The parasol was resting on her lap, and she gazed up at Erik with devotion and adoration.  
  
Leroux and the managers were well equipped with ink-bottles, fountain-pens, and monocles. Their faces were stern and imposing; they were definitely prepared for war. Leroux's pocket-watch was shined and sharp.  
  
Madame Giry rapped her cane on the table, eyeing the white ribbon with a funny twitch in her left eye.   
  
Now, everyone! Everyone! Erik's silky voice quickly quieted the army. Is everyone ready? A resounding chorus of was his reply and he smiled benevolently. Then let us forget our differences; let us forget the walls of hatred and confusion for one short day. Let's come together for a cause -- _our_ cause. I believe it was said best once upon a dream, in France, in 1832...  
  
_Who cares about your lonely soul?  
We strive towards a larger goal  
Our little lives don't count at all  
  
_By then, most, if not all, of the other characters had joined, lending their voices to his to create a joyful harmony:  
  
_Red -- the blood of angry men!  
Black -- the dark of ages past!_  
_Red -- the world about to dawn!  
Black -- the night that ends at last!  
  
_Right then, Erik said cheerfully, his voice not damaged from the peculiar, irresistible outbreak of song. We'll be off for the Poetry Factories of Germany very shortly; just go out into the lobby. Council is over!_  
  
_Hushed whispers ran through the group like electric along steel — were they _really_ going to those fabled Poetry Factories of Germany? They were dangerous (or so they had heard), and no-one was sure if it was quite safe... but Erik's word was not to be questioned.  
  
I have this friend from another book, and they said those poetry factories are positively gruesome!  
  
I know. I know this one girl who was from Les Misérables, and she went to war to protect her fandom, and it was so dangerous there... d'you think my tutu looks okay?  
  
Yeah! Brings out your eyes.  
  
They grinned and hopped off for the lobby along with everyone else, who were preparing to transport themselves to Germany.  
  
This strange, inherent ability to bend the laws of reality was something strange — they could feel the laws of the universe melting beneath their hands, the work of the creators of the universe just crumbling down like the colonnades of a long-lost building in an ancient civilisation. They all relished this new, invigorating feeling of being able to transport themselves from words and into a new place.   
  
It wasn't hard -- it was a lot like writing your own name on a piece of paper: you've been able to do it for so long that it's natural and instinctive. And that's exactly what it felt, that natural thing, when they all faded from the Scandinavian Peninsula and materialised in the Poetry Factory, weapons brandished, ready for battle.  
  
The room was silent. Not a single enemy was present -- in fact, the lights were turned off. Someone lit a match. A buzz went up in the ranks.  
  
Silence! Silence! Who has a watch? Erik boomed.  
  
I do! Leroux squeaked. It was a funny thing to hear him squeak like that -- he was nervous and anxious to defend his story. Either that or he was lygophobic. Some of the girls also were squeaking from the dark, and Christine leaned toward Erik, who, in turn, moved toward her as well. The warmth radiating from the others' body seemed to calm them.  
  
Someone find the damned light switch, Firmin muttered, fishing in his pockets.   
  
The match was handed to Leroux, who looked at it. Oh! We seem to have time-travelled; made a mistake, I suppose. It's six o'clock a.m., in German time.  
  
A groan rose up from the army and Erik thundered once again for their silence: I know what we shall do! We shall wait until the workers arrive, and declare our invasion of this factory! We won't lose.  
  
they shouted, cheered by their Fearless Leader.  
  
Sorelli passed out the Saltines and various other foods which had strangely found their way into her pockets. We'll just make the best of what we're given.  
  
Now then. Someone, find the lights.  
  
A murmur of agreement rose up.  
  
Christine stumbled backwards and flicked them on without knowing what she was doing; hit the switch, and illumined the cavernous room.  
  
It was stacked with huge machines -- dozens upon dozens, too many to count... the machines were metal, and rusty and silent, but ominous. What they did was only too clear: they gave the poor admirers of their story the rank of poetaster -- they were responsible for the delusion of poetry that many were given. The poetaster's mental fight to overcome these unknown factories was difficult, and it showed...  
  
But they would wait. And they would be ready for whatever came their way.  
  
((_You try poking yourself with a fountain-pen. IT HURTS. And do they even make grey ribbons? Guess it's one of life's great mysteries. Review, s'il vous plaît.))  
  
_


End file.
